Dares
by lastladystanding
Summary: Helo and Starbuck have known each other a long time. They can be real frakking jerks to each other. K for language.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own it. Trust me, I'm more broken up about it than you are.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Weirdly enough, there seems to be a real lack of "Starbuck is a fun badass" stories on the web. Well, here we go. A break from my usual Starbuck/Apollo 'shipping.

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Dares

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"I dare you."

"What?" Helo looks up from the diagram he's poring over. Starbuck is still lounging on the table by the window, chewing idly on the back of a pen and looking at him in a way he doesn't like. "You dare me what?" She's been so quiet, he'd thought she'd left fifteen minutes ago. He probably shouldn't have let that one rip. Anyway, "quiet" is not something which usually describes Kara Thrace. And it makes him a little nervous.

She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a _pah!_ "What do you think, dipshit? You and me, on the sims. One-on-one, head to head. If that bullshit move you're talking about actually works, you'll wipe the floor—or rather, the sky—with me." She grins. "Go on. _Prove_ yourself, Helo."

He looks down at the diagram he's been sketching, a terrifying corkscrew which, in theory, will allow a Viper pilot to get up and under the wing of the less-maneuverable Cylon Raider for an unimpeded shot. It's his own little invention, and he's very proud of it. In theory, it looks spectacular. In reality, if he's frakked up the math the G-forces will squash the pilot like a bug.

All things considered, perhaps a simulation test isn't a bad idea.

He leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and turning his own speculative look right back at her. "That doesn't sound like a dare, Starbuck. That sounds like a bet." He flexes his arm muscles, and her mouth twitches.

"You know, I think it does," she agrees, twisting around and sitting up cross-legged on the table. She's unabashedly looking at his displayed arms. "If you lose… you have to wear a ball gown to your first day of flight training." She pauses. "_And_ you get to buy me a drink."

He barks out a laugh. "Deal! And if you lose, same for you." She laughs too, and hops up off the table. "Come on, Triceps McGee," she says as she holds out a hand to him. He slaps his palm into hers and lets her pull him to his feet. "Let's go down to the sim room and pull rank on some Nuggets."

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Though their simulators are side-by-side in real life, there's about six cubic kilometers between her Raider and his Viper. Helo is at an acute disadvantage and he knows it—not only is she a better pilot, and in a ship he's not trained in, but she knows what he's about to try. And her trash talk is _really_ distracting.

"Come on, flyboy," she taunts him over the tinny headset. "Let's see what you got." She swoops around him, coaxing more deftness out of the simulated raider than it should by any rights have, and he swears a blue streak as he's forced to spiral out of the line of fire she's spitting at him. He can hear her gleeful laughter through the earpiece.

She's given him the opening though, and he leads her into the spiral—up?—down?—it could be either, with no gravity to differentiate between the two—and they move through space in a complicated _pas de deux_. It's one of those strange, counterintuitive maneuvers where she'd have a better chance of fighting him off if she were a less-skilled pilot, if she didn't know enough to move together with him. But she does, and together they spiral away into space.

The simulators are designed so that the pilot can feel the G-forces, even though they aren't real. He's set them at half-force, enough to feel the effect but not enough to risk injury, but damn if it's not one hell of a strain. Even at half-mast he can feel his eyeballs rolling up in his head, and he grits his teeth as the little red light starts beeping on his control panel. The Viper is faster, despite the fact that Kara is undoubtedly the better pilot, and he's pulling ahead, just as he planned. Just barely ahead, but it's enough. With a tug, he flips the Viper over, spewing fire at Starbuck's underbelly, just as he passes out.

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When he wakes up, the little red light that means his bird is destroyed is blinking at him viciously, and Starbuck is leaning into the door of his sim, slapping him in the face. He blinks at her and scowls, but she's laughing too hard to notice or care. Both of her wipe the tears from their eyes, gasping for breath. Helo wishes the two of them would stop spinning in those stupid circles, it's making him dizzy.

It can't be that bad, he thinks fuzzily. He's warm, and he doesn't feel hurt, although the last thing he remembers is thinking that he was about to explode. He must not have—oh, that's right. Simulation. He pushes groggily at Starbuck, who's laughing so hard now that she's leaning on him. She points a finger at his lap. "Wait—" he begins, realization slowly dawning.

"Y-y—you pissed yourself!" Starbuck howls with laughter, and Karl feels his face fill up with heat.

"Aw, frak," he mumbles, and he shoves Kara out of the way and hauls himself out of the sim. She falls laughing against the side of the machine as he staggers on shaky legs past curious nuggets, out of the simulation room and down the hall to the restroom, where he falls on his knees before one of the toilets and pukes his frakking brains out.

That's where Kara finds him, ten minutes later, still kneeling in front of the pot. She leans against the wall, having the good grace at least to look contrite. "Sorry," she says, arms folded across her chest. "I _told_ you it wouldn't work, anyway."

Helo wipes his mouth, still shaky. "It worked well enough to blow _your_ frakking bird out of the sky, didn't it?"

"Well, yeah," Starbuck shrugs. "But you killed yourself in doing it, Helo. Suicide runs are usually less complicated. If I'm gonna kill myself to take down an enemy bird, I'm just going to fly right into their windshield. Not twist myself into a swirlie to do it."

"Fair enough." He hauls himself to his feet, and she puts out a hand to help him up. He throws an arm around her shoulders gratefully, and together they move towards the door. She'll bully someone into taking him home, and in the meantime he's glad to have her help moving around. "You were right about the G-forces."

"I told you so."

"Yeah, I know. So who won the bet?"

She shrugs, jostling him. "Well, let's see. Your move worked, but it both killed you and busted up your bird."

"But it also destroyed its target."

Starbuck purses her lips. "Yeah, but as far as suicide runs go, it lacks a certain straightforwardness."

"You'd know all about straightforwardness, wouldn't you?" he teases her. "At least, that's what Teebone says."

"Teebone needs to live up to his name," Starbuck grouses. "And keep his mouth shut."

"So who won?" Helo persists.

"Near as I can figure out?" Starbuck looks up at him from under his arm. "No one. So, two losers, no winner—"

"Well then." Helo grins.

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"Listen UP, nuggets!" Starbuck's roar echoes through the training hangar. There's a line of nervous-looking trainees, fresh out of Basic and universally terrified to be training under the notorious Starbuck. She's exercising her flair for the dramatic, Helo observes from his perch on the overhanging balcony. She's hidden in the shadow underneath a Viper wing, only a dark smudge and a wisp of cigar smoke proving her existence. The sun is rising behind her to boot—most of the nuggets are shielding their eyes anyway.

"This is going to be your first—and only—introduction to Basic Flight. I am Kara Thrace. I am responsible for teaching you, molding you into Viper pilots, and if you can't cut it I am the one responsible for ending you here and now." The shadow moved beneath the wing. "There will be no second chances. I will not coddle you, I will not tell you that you are good little boys and girls. What I will do is bust your asses. Is that CLEAR?"

The nuggets jump at the sudden yell. "Yes sir!" They chant, in unison.

"My callsign is Starbuck." She steps into the sunlight, and the nuggets hold their breath.

She's in full Princess Emelia regalia, straight out of the pages of a little girl's storybook. Purple ballgown with a poofy skirt and lace overfolds, off-the-shoulder collar; hell, she's even got a tiara perched on that cocky blond head. She grins as she puffs on a cigar, the incongruity of it finishing up the perfect tableau. Helo stifles a laugh into his shoulder, wondering if he can borrow that dress for his own turn.

"My callsign is Starbuck," she says again, with that cocksure grin, "but you can call me God."

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Reviews make Baby Olympian Gods smile.


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